


wild creatures

by iphigenias



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Accidents, Depression, Hospitals, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Silly boys being silly, college student!Babe, organic grocery store owner!Gene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3715468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iphigenias/pseuds/iphigenias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gene is so <em>soft</em>, warm like sunshine, with smile crinkles around his eyes and a voice like honey. Babe was born on the knife’s edge of South Philly, and has been whittled down over the years until every surface of him is sharp enough to cut. He can’t believe he thought he had a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wild creatures

**Author's Note:**

> t/w for a graphic depiction of a panic attack, flashbacks to julian’s death, and hints of depression and anxiety disorder, because there are times in this fic when babe is not in a good place, even if he never puts a label on it. 
> 
> title from [elalusz’s](http://elalusz.tumblr.com) quote: “hearts are wild creatures. that’s why our ribs are cages.” beta'd by marnie.
> 
> based upon the fictional portrayals of hbo’s easy company and not the real men. no disrespect is intended.

Babe is, quite honestly, completely and utterly _done_ with life. He’s been having a shitty week to begin with, what with the tail end of exams and his landlord jacking up the rent, and today has gone from bad to worse, both the weather and his mood. He slept through his alarm, forgot an umbrella in his rush to leave, got soaked on the way to class, missed out on his lunch-time coffee because the queue was too long, sat through a completely irrelevant lecture from a relieving professor because Winters was away on his honeymoon, and came home from said lecture to find Bill and Fran having very enthusiastic reunion sex on the living-room couch. He’d clapped a hand over his eyes, turned on his heel and walked right back out the door, not really knowing where he was headed except for the vague idea of getting as far away from his flat as possible.

Which is why he’s ended up here, in a small, back-alley, independent supermarket seven blocks away from home. Babe shakes out his umbrella (which he remembered to grab when he was high-tailing it out the door, thank Christ) before dumping it into the labelled bucket at the entrance of the store and walking inside. The first thing he notices about the place is its warmth, wrapping around Babe like a blanket and making his eyelids droop. It smells nice in here, too, a pleasant combination of spices and something flowery Babe can’t name. There’s no-one else in the store except for the cashier, whose back is to Babe as he stacks cartons of almond milk in one of the fridges lining the rear of the shop. Babe clears his throat but the attendant doesn’t turn around.

 _Rude_ , Babe thinks, shoving his hands into his pockets.

He wanders further inside, heads up one of the narrow aisles and inspects the products on the shelves. They’re all local brands, organic produce, that sort of thing. Not Babe’s usual cuisine (he’s more a ramen and energy drink kind of guy) but he supposes there’s a kind of quaint appeal to it all. He picks one of the bottles of organic ice tea from the shelf and is just reading the label when the cashier finally finishes stacking the fridge and turns to face Babe.

 _Holy shit_ , he thinks.

The only word Babe can think of to describe the attendant is _soft_ : soft, dark hair the colour of blackberries; a soft, worn-looking green apron around his waist; and soft, kind-looking eyes which crinkle at the corners as the guy smiles. Babe forgets about the ice tea, forgets about the rain pouring down outside, forgets about Bill and Fran, forgets about everything which had been worrying him right up until the moment he stepped foot inside this store. He never really believed in love at first sight, and he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself, but Babe wonders if this is how people feel when they meet _the One._ If they have this same, _holy shit_ feeling in their stomachs, as if the world has bottomed out beneath their feet and nothing is steady any more. Babe wishes he could put a name to the way his chest has suddenly tightened, to the way his throat has dried up, but he’s coming up blank. Maybe there _is_ no word. Maybe there’s just a feeling—a good one.

Babe comes back to the present with a jolt when he feels the ice tea begin to slip from his slackened grip. Everything comes rushing back to him then, and when he glances over to the cashier once again, even his tiny, fucking _adorable_ smile can’t lift Babe’s spirits from the dump they’ve been residing in for the past twenty-four hours. The cashier seems to notice his despondency (not like it’s hard to) and looks like he wants to say something. Babe beats him to it.

“I’ll take this,” he blurts out, hefting the ice tea into the air and shuffling over towards the counter. On the way there he spots a packet of rice crisps ( _all natural! no artificial colours or flavours!_ ) and snatches them up as well. The cashier gives him a not-so-subtle once-over as he rings up the items.

“Y’okay?” he asks as he double-checks the change Babe handed him, and _of-fucking-course_ his accent is gorgeous too. There’s no way he’s single; he’s too perfect for that. The thought only manages to make Babe even grumpier.

“Peachy, thanks,” he snaps back, not meeting the cashier’s gaze. “You gonna give me a bag?”

“We have a no-plastic policy,” comes the gentle reply, and Babe rolls his eyes.

“Of course you do. Silly me.” He grabs his purchases from the counter and heads abruptly to the exit, suddenly desperate for some fresh air. When he gets outside it’s still raining, and Babe swallows down a string of filthy curses as he tugs his hood up over his head. The little bell over the shop’s entrance jangles merrily again and Babe turns to see the cashier race out towards him, holding something tightly.

“You forgot y’umbrella,” the guy says, thrusting it in Babe’s direction. “If you’re as much of a dick nex’ time, I won’ bother remindin’ you.” The rain catches in little droplets on the cashier’s eyelashes, and soaks his white t-shirt so his collarbones are starkly visible against the flimsy cotton. Anger suits him; there’s a flush high up in his cheeks which makes him look younger than he probably is.

“You gonna take it, or what?” Babe clears his throat awkwardly and takes the umbrella from the cashier, who doesn’t wait for an apology before heading back inside. Babe watches the thrust of his shoulder blades beneath his shirt and swallows heavily. Of all the people to make a bad impression on, he chooses Mr. Perfect. _Great_. But at least he’ll never have to see the guy again, because the store isn’t even in Babe’s neighbourhood, and there’s no way he’s making the seven-block trek back here just to ogle at a piece of ass.

There’s _not_.

 

 

 

 

There is.

The following Saturday, Babe wakes up from a raging hangover to Bill hovering over him, frowning. “Get your ugly mug outta the way, wouldja?” Babe groans, squinting against the sunlight now leaking into his room from behind closed blinds. He glances at his alarm clock. _8:17._ “What the fuck?” He looks at Bill, who is now perched on the end of the bed and still frowning at Babe. “What the fuck? Why am I awake now? Why did _you_ wake me up?”

Bill rolls his eyes. “Grow a pair, Heffron. We need to talk.”

“Can’t this wait until _after_ the vodka leaves my system?”

Bill doesn’t answer, just fixes Babe with a glare. “You were pretty drunk last night,” he begins with, stating the obvious. “Said some real interesting things.”

“Oh?” Babe doesn’t like where this is going. He’s actually kind of renowned amongst their friend group for embarrassing drunken confessions, and he shudders to think what he revealed last night.

“Yeah, you mouthed off about Dike for a while,” Bill says, examining his nails. That’s no surprise to Babe, really. Dike is Professor Winters’ replacement, and Babe would honestly rather chop one of his own fingers off than listen to the guy give a lecture. “And then you complained about the service at the bar, tried to make limericks about everyone there, you know, the usual.”

Babe waits for the fatal blow. “And?”

“And then you started talking about some guy, I don’t think you knew his name. Super-hot, green apron, voice of an angel?” Bill narrows his eyes. “Probably hates you? And something about an umbrella?”

“Right. Yeah. That’d be—yeah.” Babe clears his throat, meets Bill’s judgemental gaze, and spills out the entire story. Afterwards, he’s shoved into the bathroom and told to “make yourself presentable because you owe someone a huge apology.” Babe does as Bill says, and thus finds himself standing outside the little grocery store just after ten in the morning. With the sunlight on his side, Babe actually notices the name of the shop this time, painted in neat, pale blue cursive on the front window. _Roe’s Easy Organics._ The name, and the small painted cluster of spotted toadstools in the corner of the window closest to the door, makes him smile.

The bell jingles as Babe walks inside. There’re a few other customers milling about this time, and Babe weaves among them, putting another ice tea and a few other things into the bag he remembered to bring. The cashier from last week is behind the counter, that same smile on his face as he chats quietly to the customers paying for their groceries. With the sun shining through the window onto the side of his face, he’s practically _glowing_.

Babe really hopes this apology actually works.

The shop empties after about twenty minutes, and Babe seizes his chance. He wanders up to the counter, heart in his mouth, and waits for the cashier to look up from the receipts he’s flipping through. “Welcome to _Roe’s Easy Organics_ , how may I—” the cashier glances up and halts mid-sentence as soon as his gaze lands on Babe, obviously recognising him. “—help you,” he finishes dryly, losing the smile he’d been wearing for the past half hour. Babe feels guilty, knowing he’s the reason why. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Yeah, I, uh—I came to apologise. For the other day.” The cashier meets his eyes steadily and doesn’t look away. Babe doesn’t either. “I was in a really shitty mood, and I know that’s no excuse for the way I behaved, but I just wanted you to know that I’m really sorry. And—yeah,” he finishes lamely. His heart is _ba-booming_ in his chest.

The cashier seems to consider Babe’s word vomit, tilting his head to the side while still holding Babe’s gaze. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Well, I s’pose I can forgive you. Not ev’ryone would come back and ‘pologise, y’know. I oughta thank you.”

“There’s really no need. I fucked up, not you.” Babe lets out a nervous laugh as he scrambles for something else to say. “Could I get these, then?” The cashier takes the bag from Babe’s outstretched arm, and as he begins to ring up the groceries, the smallest of smiles settles across his lips. Babe feels like he could sing with happiness.

“Tha’ll be eighteen dollars twenty,” the cashier says when he’s finished, glancing down at the name on the card that Babe hands over. “You don’t look like an Edward,” he says as the receipt prints off. Babe flushes when he meets his gaze.

“Only the nuns call me Edward,” he laughs, taking the bag of paid-for groceries from the cashier but not wanting to leave just yet. “Everyone else calls me Babe.”

“Babe?” The way the guy says his name makes Babe flush all over again, but for entirely different reasons. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

“I’m not, I swear!” Babe laughs again as the cashier rolls his eyes, jumping slightly when the bell over the door announces the entrance of another customer. “I should probably—”

“A’right,” the cashier says mildly, still smiling. “Y’know this means I’ll be expectin’ you to come again?”

“I’m counting on it,” Babe grins back, pushing open the door. “But I’m gonna need your name first.”

The cashier tilts his head to the side, looking for all the world like one of those adorable puppies Babe’s sister breeds. “S’Gene,” he says finally, in that addictive Southern drawl. “Gene Roe.”

 _He must own the store,_ Babe realises. The thought makes him feel oddly proud. “I’ll see you around, then. Gene.”

The door closes behind Babe with its customary bell jingle and an amused “See you, Edward,” from behind the counter. Babe rolls his eyes like he does whenever anyone calls him that, but oddly enough, when the name’s coming from Gene, he finds he doesn’t really mind at all.

 

 

 

 

It becomes a thing for him, after that.

He’ll drop by _Roe’s Easy Organics_ every second afternoon or so and buy some things he doesn’t really need just for an excuse to talk to Gene at the counter. It gets to the point where Bill starts to complain about the proliferation of local produce and “organic crap” in their kitchen pantry. Babe just smiles innocently and helps himself to more ice tea. After all, it was Bill who sent him back there to apologise in the first place.

Babe becomes something like a regular at the store, and he even starts to drop in on the rare days when Gene isn’t working. A sweet girl called Renee fills on for those shifts, and after an initial heart-stopping moment when Babe had mistaken her for Gene’s girlfriend, before being swiftly corrected in amused French, they’ve become rather good friends as well. It’s nice to have new friends, Babe realises one day as he helps Gene close up shop. Friends who haven’t known him since he was in diapers, who don’t flinch every time the name _Julian_ is mentioned, who can’t judge him based upon the person he used to be. Don’t get him wrong, Babe loves Bill and Spina and the rest of them, but Gene and Renee (especially Gene) offer a chance for him to make something new of himself. To be more than just the baby of a family from the war zone that is South Philly.

Gene finishes wiping down the counter (and Babe finishes watching the muscles flex beneath Gene’s thin t-shirt as he does so) and sends Babe a tentative smile. “You wanna grab somethin’ to eat?”

“What?”

“I _said_ , you wanna grab somethin’ to eat? There’s a diner a couple o’ blocks from here, they make a mean cheeseburger.” Gene’s tone is casual, his stance relaxed as he waits for an answer, but Babe notices the almost-imperceptible shake of his fingers as they untie his apron. It gives him a small measure of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he’s not alone in his crush.

“Why not?” he forces himself to say, grinning as he leads the way out the door. “I could use a good cheeseburger, God knows.” Gene smiles and starts to say something in reply, but before he can formulate his words Babe’s phone chimes in his pocket. He pulls an apologetic face. “Just a sec.”

Babe unlocks his phone and reads the message on the screen. _NEED U!!! NOW!!!_ “Fuck,” he says under his breath. “Fuck.” He glances up at Gene, who is looking at him with a wry twist to his lips. “I’m so sorry—fuck, it’s Bill, he never texts unless it’s urgent—I gotta go, I’m so sorry.”

Gene looks away. “Maybe another time, then.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Babe says distractedly as he dials Bill’s number. “Come on, pick up pick up pick—Bill! What happened? Are you—Christ. _Christ_. Okay, don’t worry, I’m coming to you—”

He starts to jog down the street, and is about to turn the corner when he remembers Gene. He shoots a glance over his shoulder, lifting his arm in a half-wave, but the alleyway behind him is empty. Gene is nowhere to be seen.

Babe doesn’t have the time or energy to worry about what that might mean. He needs to get to the hospital.

 

 

 

 

It’s Fran.

When Babe skids into emergency, it’s to find Bill in a wheelchair, head in his hands. Babe’s heart constricts to see his best friend looking so desolate. “What happened?”

“Some dickhead ran a red light,” Bill murmurs, voice muffled because he doesn’t raise his head. “On Fran’s side. Docs say my leg is broken, but—Fran, she—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s all right.” Babe hurries over to a nurse filling out some paperwork at the front desk. “My friend, Frances Peca—is she in surgery? Please, I—”

“You family?” the nurse asks, without looking up from his clipboard.

“No, I—she’s my friend, Bill’s girlfriend—he’s a mess, please, I just need to know.”

The nurse finally glances up, brow furrowed. “She’s in surgery,” he says softly, and Babe has to strain to hear him over the noise of the hospital. “Docs say she’s critical. That’s all I can say.”

Babe thanks the nurse and hurries back over to Bill, who hasn’t moved a muscle. “She’s in surgery, Bill,” he tells him, rubbing soothing circles over his friend’s back. “The docs’ll fix her right up, you hear? She’s gonna be fine.” Bill doesn’t answer, and Babe doesn’t know what to say. The sterile smell of the emergency room, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead—it’s bringing back memories, bad memories Babe would rather forget.

He remembers a night like this a little over three years ago, remembers the agonising pain of _waiting_ in one of those hard plastic chairs, remembers being asked by a nurse to wash the blood off his hands and arms because he was scaring the other patients. Babe remembers standing in the men’s room and looking into the mirror, seeing his own face flecked with blood and the heavy shadows stark against his pale skin. He remembers the cool metal of the faucet, and the lukewarm water turning red as he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed at his hands until they were raw.

Babe remembers all this and more as he sits rigidly beside Bill in the waiting room, and the worst part of it is? He can’t for the life of him make the memories go away. Julian has always been a dark spot in the back of his mind, always ready to infect Babe’s happiness and take it away, but these past few weeks with Gene had made Babe think (mistakenly) that maybe it was finally, _finally_ over. Maybe he’d reached the summit of grief and could now come down the other side. Maybe thinking about Julian didn’t have to be so painful any more.

He was a fool to believe that, because now the pain’s back and is worse than ever, and now he might have two friends to mourn over, instead of just the one.

 

 

 

 

Fran makes it. Babe could cry from happiness. Bill does.

She ends up having to stay at the hospital for a little over a week. Bill doesn’t leave her side, and Babe, no matter how much it pains him to face his ghosts, hardly ever leaves Bill’s. When Fran’s finally allowed home, Babe spends all his time when he’s not in class looking after both her and Bill. He buys all the groceries from the generic supermarket just down the road from their apartment, covers the rent using increasingly ingenious methods of payment, and tries to ignore the memory of Julian insistently tap-tap-tapping against his head.

He doesn’t forget about Gene, per se. He just doesn’t have the time to make the trek over to _Roe’s_. Gene never gave Babe his number, so there’s no way to contact him or Renee. Babe regrets every moment that he’s not listening to that lilting Cajun accent, or staring into those heady blue eyes, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

It’s his penance, he supposes, for not being able to save Julian. The punishment is a little late in coming, but maybe that just means Babe deserves it even more. He was a fool for thinking he was good enough for Gene—for even _considering_ the idea that they had a future together. Gene is so _soft_ , warm like sunshine, with smile crinkles around his eyes and a voice like honey. Babe was born on the knife’s edge of South Philly, and has been whittled down over the years until every surface of him is sharp enough to cut. He can’t believe he thought he had a chance.

 

 

 

 

A month passes in this fashion, and then two, then three. Bill gets off his crutches, and Fran’s own wounds have healed enough for them both to be more of a help around the house. It’s a relief for Babe, who takes the first chance he gets to escape the apartment and go for long, refreshing stroll to clear his thoughts.

Somehow, his feet take him to _Roe’s_. Babe really shouldn’t be surprised.

The shop is different, he notices. Someone has repainted the sign in the window, using red paint instead of blue, and now as well as the toadstools in the corner there’s a whole forest painted around the edges of the glass. Babe takes a long, steadying breath before walking inside, where the bell jingles just like it used to and the warmth of the store greets him like a long-lost friend.

Gene is behind the counter, serving a little old lady with a smile on his face that could cure cancer. Babe doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed that it’s Gene, and not Renee, who’s on shift. In some ways, Renee would have been easier to deal with—but then again, Babe _really_ missed Gene.

He wanders down the familiar aisles, grabbing a bottle of ice tea and a packet of rice crisps from the shelves, as if re-enacting their first meeting will somehow be able to erase the missing three months between them. Babe knows it won’t, and he doesn’t know if he wants it to. He used to love having friends like Gene and Renee, who didn’t care about his past or the kid he used to be, who only knew the Babe of the present and couldn’t judge him by his old wounds. But now, now Babe wonders if a clean slate will ever be possible for him, or if he’s doomed forever to be stuck in the same neighbourhood with the same friends, running from the same ghosts with the same heavy heart that he was born with. It’s a sombre thought, and it makes Babe’s knees weak with fear. He can’t breathe. The aisle he’s standing in begins to blur and spin around him. He sinks to the floor, ice tea rolling away to the side, and shuts his eyes against the tears he can feel building up inside them.

He can’t breathe. He tries, he tries, takes deep, shuddering intakes of air, but none of it seems to be reaching his lungs and oh, oh, he knows this feeling, he knows what this is, and suddenly he’s back on that moonlit street three years ago, kneeling beside the writhing body of his friend, hands slick with blood as they press up against the hole in Julian’s neck, and oh, oh, this is bad, this is bad, this is very very bad.

Dimly, Babe hears a voice calling his name. “Edward. Edward _._ _Babe._ ” He feels a hand, big and soft and warm, covering his own, and another hand comes to rest against his cheek, which feels flushed with fever. Babe wants to open his eyes, wants to look at Gene and look at him and never stop looking, _wants_ to be able to breathe without feeling like he’s dying, to be able to think about Julian without remembering that night, but he can’t, he can’t, he _can’t_ and—

Something warm and dry presses against his lips, and Babe jolts in surprise, his eyes flying open. Gene is looking straight at him, so close that Babe could count his eyelashes, and oh, Gene is _kissing_ him. _Gene Roe_ is kissing _Babe_ , and this is everything he’s ever wanted since he first laid eyes on that gentle-voiced cashier with a green apron and irresistible smile.

Babe remembers how to breathe, forgets to be scared, and instead just kisses Gene back.

The store is quiet around them. Gene must have turned the _OPEN_ sign to _CLOSED._ Babe can feel every pore of his skin, every drop of blood pulsing through his veins. All he can think about is Gene.

After what feels to Babe like an eternity, Gene pulls away from the kiss. He stares at Babe with those wide, beseeching eyes, before rising to his feet and offering out his hand to help Babe up. He’s still staring.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he finally says, and _Christ_ , Babe has missed his voice.

“I know,” he says croakily, before clearing his throat and wetting his chapped lips. “I’m sorry. I wanted to come back, but Bill and Fran needed me and I didn’t think—” He spreads his hands helplessly. Gene tilts his head to the side.

“Didn’t think what?”

“Didn’t think you’d wanna see me again,” Babe admits, still holding Gene’s gaze, which is unreadable. “I was stupid, I know, and I’m real sorry about what just happened, I’m not—I’m not feeling too great today, and it was probably a mistake to come here and now you must think I’m crazy and—and I’m just real sorry for leaving you like that. You didn’t deserve it. You still don’t. _I_ don’t deserve _you_.”

Gene blinks slowly, once, twice. “You’re right,” he says at last, and Babe’s heart sinks. “You were stupid. Stupid to think you don’t deserve me, stupid to think you’re crazy, stupid to think that this was a mistake.”

“What—”

“This ain’t forgiveness for leavin’ me,” Gene says over him, and Babe falls silent. “That’s gonna take time, and an explanation. But I’m willin’ to listen, if you’re willin’ to talk.” He takes a step closer to Babe, who swallows around the sudden obstruction in his throat. A strange feeling blossoms inside his chest, something that feels an awful lot like _hope_. “I missed you,” Gene says simply, holding Babe’s gaze. “And I wanna help. If you’ll let me.”

Babe looks at Gene, standing tall with his arms hanging loosely by his sides, green apron tied around his waist and collarbones peeking out from beneath the collar of his thin white t-shirt. He looks at Gene and feels a _yearning_ for something he can’t name, something he’s never felt before and never wants to feel for anyone else again. Babe thinks about Julian, and the soft throb of the artery beneath his hands as he kneeled beside him on that lonely street, screaming for someone to help. But Babe also remembers Julian as a kid, his sweet smile and raucous laughter, and the way he was like the little brother Babe never had.

Babe thinks about Julian, and thinks about Gene, and knows that the only way forward is to reconcile his past with his present. So he takes a deep breath, meets Gene’s gaze head-on, and lets him in.

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be happy. [side-eyes the fuck outta myself]
> 
> hopefully you guys spotted my subtle hinting at nix/winters, as well as my not-so-subtle teen wolf reference
> 
>  **edit:** since writing this fic, i've realised that kissing someone out of a panic attack is 100% a no-go. not only is it an invasion of their privacy, it is done without consent, and would probably only increase the anxiety of the person having the attack. it is honestly too much of a pain to go back and rewrite that whole scene (who knows, maybe someday i will), but i just want you to know that i had no idea how problematic that stydia scene from teen wolf was when i used it for inspiration. i am deeply, truly sorry. both gene and i should have known better.


End file.
